The Making of a Witcher
by Calanteli
Summary: Marken did not have it easy. But when he is chosen to become a witcher, he truly learns the meaning of a difficult life. Featuring Vesimir, Geralt and other witchers from Kaer Morhen. R&R much appreciated!
1. The Parting

**The Parting**

He watched the fires of the funeral prier as they struggled to stay alive in the face of the harsh wind. He was cold, but he tried to ignore it. Against his will, tears threatened to spill down his cheeks as the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the air. He could not let himself cry. He had to remain strong. His brother would want that from him…

His whole life, it seemed, was a constant reminder of the fragility of existence. Three times during the course of his eight winters, he had stood at this very spot, watching a member of his family being consumed by fire. He figured he should be used to the sight by now, be used to the empty feeling at the pit of his stomach. But death, he had learnt, was one of the few things in life that was impossible to become accustomed to. For just as his family had started to accept that their numbers had once again been reduced, had started to accept the gaping whole left the absence of a person they loved, another one would be taken from them. The grief, the pain and the anger came with no less force than they had the first time, with the passing of Miken, the youngest brother. In a way, he was glad for them – they were a tangible reminder that he was still alive. Feeling _anything_ confirmed his existence and so he let his threadbare cloak whip around him, let the frosty gale caress the patches of his exposed skin and let himself shiver in the cold.

Arden had been the third to die. He had been the second eldest and was closest to him in age. They had shared many mischievous adventures together when they were not busy trying to survive the harsh realities in their life. Kwaeden was a harsh land with long, cold winters and short, wet summers. Not many things grew here, apart from the hardy steppe grasses and a few stunned trees. Crop failure was a common occurrence, and during those times the families of the tiny, nameless village reverted to a sort of hunter-gatherer existence, roaming the land in search of food. He had heard tales of the lands of the south where the land sagged with the weight of the new harvest, the skies were blue instead of grey and people lived in marvellous cities. He and Arden had made plans to journey to this seemingly magical place, to confirm for themselves that it really existed. But now such plans had gone up in the very same smoke that now rose from the prier before him.

As he watched the billowing fumes arch into the sky, he could almost discern images of him and his brother in it. The murky silhouette of a tree seemed to form smoke and he allowed himself a small smile as he remembered the time he and Arden had snuck into the orchard of the noble lord who live nearby to steal apples. As they had munched on their spoils, he remembered thinking that he had never tasted anything so good in his life. The apples had been bright red, like blood, their sweet juice running down his chin and fingers like honey and the taste had filled his senses and his stomach with warmth. And he also remembered that was glad to be able to share such an experience with his elder brother.

But now he had to put such pleasant memories behind him. With the passing of Arden, he was now the second eldest. And with that came responsibilities. His eldest brother, Madden, had been forced to take the place vacated by their father last year. Even though he was only fourteen, he acted as if he was twice that age. When you lived a harsh existence, and your life could expire at any moment, you quickly learnt what was important and what was not. Madden had decided that his family was more important than his childhood, and as he had stood at this very spot the previous winter, he had seen his eldest brother morph into the person he was now. Outwardly, there had been no visible changes but now, when he looked into Madden's eyes, he saw a man instead of a boy.

The wood of the prier collapsed and he was brought back to reality. The sun had set long ago and he was the only one still standing at the Place of Ashes. It was a symbolic name, he knew. The ashes never stayed long; the relentless wind swept then across the planes, leaving behind charred earth that was quickly covered up be fresh snow. And when the snows melted and the summer rains set in, fresh shoots of grass emerged, obscuring any traces of death. For such was the cycle of life – when one died, he was swallowed up by the elements. The body disappeared, and only the memories lived on.

He remembered being told that all those who died returned to the bosom of Melitele, the Mother Goddess. He hoped that Arden was with Her now, in a golden field, under an azure sky, eating delicious apples.

o~o~o

The door of the hut slammed open to reveal a yeti. Jumping back in fright, he gripped the peeling knife in what he hoped was a threatening manner. He had heard tales by some trackers of the strange monsters that roamed the Kestrel Mountains. The one that had invaded their home was smaller than the towering beasts he had been told about and was acting in a strangely human manner as it stomped its feet on the packed-earth floor. The snow that clung to it fell in chunks to the ground, revealing that the 'it' was in fact a 'he'. The heavy fur-lined hood was thrown back to unveil Madden.

"You had me scared there for a minute," Marken said, coming to greet his brother and to take the carcass of a hare from him. "I though you were a yeti."

Madden scoffed. "You shouldn't believe everything Old Scar tells you. I bet half his tales aren't even true."

"But he showed me the yeti skull!"

"It was probably just the skull of a bear."

"Then why would he say it was from a yeti?"

"How should I know? His wits are addled? He likes to spin a good yarn? Either way, I don't care. I'm starving, so come help me skin this hare." Madden strode off into the kitchen where he greeted his mother and baby sister. Marken followed, feeling slightly dejected after his brother's scolding. Throwing the hare onto the table, he set about gutting and skinning it with all the fury of an eight-year old. For even though he had felt wise beyond his years at the funeral, at heart, he was still very much a child.

Within the space of an hour, the four of them were heaping large spoonfuls of hare stew into their mouths. This was the first proper meal they had eaten in three days. A mighty blizzard had set in, and venturing outside had been impossible. The weather had cleared briefly in the morning and Madden had decided to take the risk and venture into the forest in search of food. But by noon the storm had resumed. Marken and his mother had waited anxiously, and it was a relief to both of them when Madden had made it home. Marken didn't think that they would have been able to cope with another death so soon after Arden's passing.

And so with Madden's safe return and the results of successful hunt in their bellies, a light air of festivity had settled around the table. No word was spoken; there was no need. Little Marcia gurgled occasionally but otherwise the small family sat in silence, enjoying each other's company, glad for the small blessing of being together.

o~o~o

Even before he was fully awake, he sensed that something was not quite right. Opening his eyes, he dressed quickly, and grabbing his skinning knife, he crept silently through the house. Seeing nothing amiss inside, he opened the door and…

His mouth dropped open. The blizzard had broken up during the night and a fresh pile of virgin snow covered the land as far as they eye could see. It sparkled in the weak light of the sun like it had been enchanted. The great blue expanse of the sky was only marred by a few scatterings of clouds. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Whooping with excitement, he rushed outside, nearly drowning in the snow, but he did not care. Such a marvellous day could not be wasted huddling inside and he gave full reign to his inner child. He let his imagination roam wild as he crouched behind a snow-covered boulder. Pulling his knife from his boot, he became a fearsome hunter, tracking the elusive yeti. He had to move carefully – yetis had above-average hearing and smell, and could sense warm flesh from miles away. But if he managed to kill one, then he would prove to the world that yetis did exist and his brother would think twice about scolding him again. Slinking from snowdrift to snowdrift, he knew he was getting closer. His heart hammered in his chest and he was conscious of every sound. He could actually _hear_ the snorting of the monster as he drew closer to it…

Snapping his head up, his eyes widened in fear as he realised the true source of the sound. His hunt forgotten, he dashed through the snow, cursing the fact that its deepness was slowing him down. He had almost reached the hut when he stumbled and fell. Scrambling up again, he saw that he was too late. The intruders had already made it to his home and were in the process of dismounting. The swords that hung at their sides and were strapped to their backs gleamed wickedly in the light. He would not let them hurt his family, even if it was the last thing he did.

He broke into a dash, ignoring the snow, aware only of the beating of his heart and the sturdy bone handle of the knife in his hand. He realised that he was screaming a wordless cry as he rushed the closest man. He was about to slash at him, but the man had heard him coming and stepping aside, grabbed the hand that held the knife and twisted it behind his back in one smooth motion. Marken yelped in pain and he felt his fingers involuntarily drop the knife. He kicked and squirmed, trying to loosen the man's hold, but to no avail.

"You're a spirited little kid, aren't you?" asked the man who was holding him, a smile twitching at his lips. Marken merely glared at him with all the hate and anger he could muster and in response, he spat at the man's feet. But to his surprise, instead of being slapped or killed, as he been expecting, the man laughed. Releasing him, he crouched down in front of him and Marken gasped. The man's eyes were golden!

"Tell me boy, how old are you?"

"Eight," he mumbled, too caught up in observing the stranger's weird eyes to remember that he was supposed to hate him.

"Did you hear that, lads?" said the man, turning to address his group. "This tiny scrap of a boy is only eight years old, and yet he has more courage than many men I have known. The qualities of a good witcher lie not only in the strength of his arm or the speed of his feet, but in the spirit of his heart. May this day remind you of that." Marken had no idea what the man was on about, but it sounded suitably impressive.

"Do you have a name, boy?" the man asked, turning back to him. His golden eyes were warm and kind and Marken found that all his anger had disappeared, replaced by childish curiosity He wanted to know more about the strange man in front of him, so he decided to be courteous.

"Marken," he replied. "What's yours?"

"Ah, so you can speak in complete sentences," came the chuckled reply. "I am Vesemir. Pleased to meet you, Marken," he added, offering a calloused hand, which Marken took timidly. He had never been treated like a man before and it made him feel proud and self-conscious at the same time.

"What is going on out here?" came the voice of his mother as she opened the door. She gasped as she took in the scene in front of her and the sound brought Madden running as well.

Vesemir stood up and bowed slightly. Marken saw his mother flush and Madden's eyes open wide. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ma'am. I am Vesemir. You must be Marken's mother." She nodded mutely, not sure what to make of any of this. She had never seen these men before and they looked dangerous. "You have raised a strapping young lad here," the man who called himself Vesemir, continued. "I would like to have a word with you about him, if I may."

"Erm, yes of course… Please, come inside." She knew she should not be inviting strange men into the house, especially ones with golden eyes, and Madden's scowl confirmed this. But this Vesemir had been polite and there was something plain and honest about him. She doubted that they were bandits. They were too well-fed and by the quality of their weapons, she guessed they were either well-paid mercenaries or adventurers. What they wanted with her son, she had no idea.

As the door of the hut closed, Marken was felt standing outside with three horses and two men. He took to examining the horses first since the only ones he had ever seen were sturdy draught horses or the sure-footed ponies that the men of this region preferred. The animals in front of him did not belong to either category. Despite their heavy winter coats, they were sleek and muscular and obviously well-taken care of. He wondered what sort men these were to be able to afford such fine looking horses.

On one of the mounts sat a well-built man with white hair and golden eyes. He reminded Marken of a wolf, ready to pounce at the first scent of danger. Turning his gaze to the other man, he saw that his rough face was marked by a large, disfiguring scar. But his golden eyes sparkled animatedly as he spoke to the first one.

"Say Geralt, why do you think Vesemir is so interested in the lad over there?"

The man called Geralt turned his gaze on to Marken, as if he was only noticing him just now. He appraised him for a long minute and Marken felt himself squirming on the spot. But he sensed that showing any weakness or fear would not be appropriate, so he forced himself to return a level gaze. After what seemed like an age, the man released him from under the mesmerising hold of his lupine stare and nodded almost imperceptibly to himself. Marken exhaled in relief, and knew that he had passed some sort of test.

"He has potential," replied Geralt in a gravely voice.

"What? You think Vesemir wants…?"

"Yes."

The other man sat back in the saddle and he moved his lower jaw about in a contemplative manner. "Huh…" was all he said. After a moment he added, "Quite unlike Vesemir to…"

"I know," cut in Geralt, without waiting for his companion to finish. The men had obviously known each other for a long time if they were able to anticipate each other's lines of reasoning.

"I wonder what Raven will have to say about it," mused the scar-faced man. Geralt did not reply.

Marken had listened to the cryptic exchange in bewilderment. He had a vague idea of what they had been talking about, but if that meant what he thought it did then… At that moment the door of the hut opened and he was prevented from finishing his line of thought. Vesemir stepped out into the sunlight, followed by his mother, who was fighting hard to keep her face calm.

Marken rushed up to her and she wrapped him into her arms. He knew that this was not the time to ask the million questions that buzzed around in his head. He felt a strange sense of finality settle around them, and in that moment, everything became clear. This would be last time he would see his family.

"Now, my darling, listen to me," his mother whispered harshly into his ear. "These men are going to take you away to a better place where you will be educated and hopefully some day you will be able to make a name for yourself. You will have new clothes, a warm bed and plenty of food to help you grow into a strong boy." He felt a warm wetness dampen his neck and heard his mother stifle a sob.

"Is Madden coming with me too?" Even though he already knew the answer, he could not suppress the question, nor the slight quiver that had entered his voice.

"No, my darling. Madden is going to stay here and help me with little Marcia. Maybe one day when you are older, you can come back here and see her all grown up. If you will still remember us."

"I will always remember you, Mamma," he reassured her. He thought that his mother was being silly thinking that he could ever forget his family, but of course, he did not voice this.

"Now go," she said, disentangling herself from his arms and wiping the tears from her eyes. "It is rude to keep people waiting."

He stepped back and looked around for Madden, but could not see him. One of the horses snorted impatiently and he realised that he had been staring at the small hut, trying to imprint every detail into his memory. Turning slowing around, he trudged towards the waiting men, the same heavy feeling from the funeral growing in his heart with every step. Vesemir smiled down gently at him before lifting him into the saddle. Mounting himself, he was about to kick the animal forward when Madden burst from the hut, carrying something wrapped in a faded piece of cloth. Marken's heart flipped over when he realised what it was.

"Father would want you to have it," his elder brother murmured almost inaudibly as he thrust the object at him. His eyes were red with unshed emotion.

"No," Marken replied, tears coming to his own eyes. "You keep it."

"Take it." Madden's voice was dangerously calm.

"But…"

"I said take it!" his brother almost screamed.

Marken snatched the bundle out of Madden's hands, shocked by the sudden outburst. Vesemir's horse moved forward and for many minutes Marken was forced to concentrate on keeping his balance without dropping the precious bundle or sliding off the horse himself. Glancing back, he saw that his home had disappeared into the uniform whiteness of the land, a frail spiral of smoke being the only indicator that it even existed.


	2. The Resolution

**The Resolution  
**

That night they camped in the lee of a small copse of stunted trees. The wind had abated; which in Kwaeden meant that it was no longer a howling gale but merely a stout gust. The temperature stayed well below freezing but the men sitting around the small fire did not seem to mind. Marken, however, was huddled in three saddle blankets as well as Vesemir's cloak. He was no longer on the verge of freezing to death, but his teeth continued to chatter occasionally and his fingers and toes still felt like icicles. Even though he hailed from these parts, and knew full well how harsh the winters could be, he had never before been forced to spend an entire day and night out in the cold.

"Here, lad, drink this." Vesemir, apparently noticing his discomfort, sat down next to him on the snow-covered log and thrust a flask of some foul smelling liquid under his nose. Marken wrinkled his face in disgust. "It will warm you up," the golden-eyed man prompted.

Marken did not need to be told twice and grabbed the container, desperate for any cure against the cold. Ignoring the smell, he took a deep quaff. The next second he was bent over double, coughing his lungs up. He heard Vesemir chuckle lightly while the hoot of Eskel's laughter rang over the snowy planes. Looking up through the haze of tears in his eyes, he saw that even Geralt had allowed himself a small smile.

"Good shit, eh?" asked Eskel, thumping him on the back. Marken nodded weakly, his throat still on fire. It definitely _tasted_ shite. Whether it was good or not was probably a matter of opinion. The scar-faced man grabbed the flask from him and took a hearty swig. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he added, "Pepper vodka, in case you're wonderin'. Surprised you've never had it before. It's the local cure for everything."

"Everything?" wheezed Marken, highly doubtful. Of course, he had heard of pepper vodka. Every man worth his salt kept a bottle or two stashed away and had seen his father taking a covert sip on dark winter days. At least, he _had_, when he had still been alive.

But before they could truly begin, his melancholic thoughts were abated by the delicious warmth spreading through his body from the centre of his stomach. So maybe Eskel was not exaggerating…too much. During the day, he had come to find that Eskel was a very talkative man who had a comment, observation, side-note or opinion about everything. He could keep the conversation flowing for hours; even when he was the only one participating. Vesemir joined in occasionally, while Geralt, for the most part, rode in silence. If he was in a good mood, then maybe he would reward his companion's efforts with a nondescript grunt.

"Of course!" Eskel exclaimed, apparently overjoyed that Marken was finally speaking to him. The man had tried to engage him in conversation several times, but Marken had ignored him, too caught up in trying to figure out why he had ended up with these men in the first place and whether or not he should try to escape. But by the time night fell, he knew that they were miles from home and in the harsh Kwaeden winter, he had no chance of making it home alive. So he had grudgingly come to accept his new situation and decided to tough it out for the time being. His mother probably had very good reasons why she had entrusted him with these men, and he did not want to doubt her judgement.

"…and it can make you forget every painful memory you ever had, temporarily at least, but then, of course, you will most probably wake up with a friggin' _painful_ hangover, and will feel like shit for the next several hours, if not the whole day, during which time you will feel like your mouth is made of sandpaper, your stomach has been turned inside out and you want to do nothing else but lie in bed, waiting for death to come and put you out of your misery, though of course you will end up feeling better as soon as…"

Marken stared at Eskel with a combination of horror and admiration. The man was apparently bent on forging the longest grammatically correct sentence in the history of the world, and so far he was doing a pretty decent job. Currently, he was on about some anecdotal experience involving a bucket, grass and lots of bacon.

"All right, you two," muttered Vesemir from the other side of the fire. His strange eyes glowed golden-red in the light of the fire, and Marken was reminded of the stories Old Scar used to tell of the flesh-eating ghouls that apparently haunted abandoned graveyards. "Enough patter. I want to make it to Kaer Morhen tomorrow, so get some rest as we have a long ride ahead of us."

Marken sighed in relief as Eskel promptly shut up and moved to his blankets. Silence descended on the small camp, broken only by the crackling of the fire as it reduced itself to embers. The symphony of the night was accompanied by the deep, even breathing of the three men around him. As Marken tried to arrange himself in a position that was semi-comfortable without exposing any part of himself to the cold, he noted with curiosity that none of his companions were preparing themselves for bed. Instead, they were sitting cross-legged, facing away from the fire with their palms resting on their knees, their backs ramrod straight. He looked at each of them in turn with growing confusion. Hadn't Vesemir said that they needed to be rested for tomorrow? So why were they not sleeping? Surely one man was enough to take the watch? Maybe it was some strange ritual that they had to do before they were allowed to sleep…

As these thoughts buzzed around in his head, his eyes slowly closed and he found himself dreaming about vodka-drinking yetis blabbering incessantly about death and bacon.

o~o~o

Dawn was just creeping over the horizon when a rough hand shook him awake. Opening his bleary eyes, he found himself staring into Vesemir's golden orbs. "Time to get up, lad," was all the man said before moving off to secure his bags to the saddle of his horse.

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Marken looked around what was left of their camp. Eskel was busy kicking snow and dirt over the feeble remains of the fire while Geralt (who had somehow managed to extract his saddle blanket from Marken's woolly cocoon without waking him up) was tightening the girth on his saddle. Stifling a yawn with mixed success, Marken unwrapped himself from the warm burrow he had created for himself in his sleep and shivered as he exposed himself to the cold. But the chilly wind helped to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind and he quickly sorted out his blankets. Once done, Eskel and Vesemir saddled their horses in no time and soon they were off, plodding across the white landscape.

They rode throughout the day, eating a meagre meal of dried provisions in the saddle. The sky remained overcast, heralding another storm, and Vesemir pressed the horses to go as fast as they could without snapping a leg in the deep snow. Marken sensed his new companions' concern and understood it all too well – it would be suicide if they were caught outside in a blizzard; the ruthless land offered no protection from the elements. Finding that copse of trees last night had been a stroke of sheer luck. Even Eskel was quiet for once, concentrating instead on scanning the surroundings for a possible place to shelter in case they did not make it to…wherever they were going. Vesemir had mentioned a 'Kaer Morhen' last night, a place that Marken had never heard of. Not that he had travelled all that much during his short life. But the name had an exotic ring to it, so whatever it was, it was probably worth the hurry.

o~o~o

Dusk was falling by the time the first snow flakes began to fall. Marken was tired, hungry and sore. Not to mention frozen stiff from the cold. He fought to keep his eyelids open, knowing that if he fell asleep outside, he might never wake up. But he was quickly losing the battle. All he wanted in the world was to crawl into the rickety little bed he had shared with Arden and to sleep forever…

"Look, lad. We are here," came Vesemir's voice from seemingly far away. The man shifted in the saddle and presented him with a view that made Marken forget all his cares. In front of him rose a castle that even _his_ vivid imagination could not have conjured up. It presented itself resolutely to the world, like an old, battered warrior gazing out over a battlefield that might very well be his last. Sitting with a stubborn tilt on the steep rise, it seemed to be fighting for space with the ancient mountain at its back. It was not a beautiful castle by any means (in fact, the proper word would have been a 'keep' or a 'fortress' since it possessed a distinct military air), but, it exuded a raw and powerful quality that made any man pause and admire it.

Marken was so engrossed with his observations that he did not notice that they were moving again until they were passing beneath the main gate of the keep. They clattered into a square court-yard that had been swept clean of snow. A lone man awaited them, the hilts of two finely-wrought swords visible over his shoulders. Despite the freezing temperature, he was dressed merely in a sleeveless leather jack that showed off the intricate tattoos decorating his muscled arms. From the depths of his serious face, a tight smile emerged.

"Some of the others were starting to get worried. Said that you had been swallowed up that infernal blizzard. Even placed wagers!" The man chuckled softly, but the sound still managed to echo off the bare stone around them. "Told them that they were truly more addled than they looked if they thought that old Vesemir would be beaten by Mother Nature."

"Good to see you too, Raven," replied Vesemir warmly as he dismounted and clasped arms with the other man.

"And I see the Wolf and the Sparrow have returned in one piece as well," Raven continued, nodding his head towards Geralt and Eskel. "I trust the job went well?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle," piped Eskel before Vesemir could reply. "A dozen yetis are no match for three seasoned witchers, eh, Geralt?" His companion merely grunted as he unstrapped his saddle bags.

"You saw _actual_ yetis?" gasped Marken in awe before he could contain himself. Here was _proof_ that he had been right and that… He quickly clamped his mouth shut when Raven snapped his fierce gaze onto him. Whereas Geralt's scrutiny had made him squirm, this man made him want to bury himself in the ground.

"Where did you pick up the little rat?" asked Raven, running his lupine eyes over him.

"One of the many nameless villages we passed through along the way," replied Vesemir, crossing his arms over his chest. In answer to Raven's unasked question he added, "He showed potential."

"What? _Potential?_" barked Raven in amusement. "He looks like a stout breeze could knock him over and you want to _train_ him?"

"He has courage, and a stout heart," Vesemir countered with a steady voice. "A body may be trained, skills may be learnt, a mind may be developed, but courage must be innate. That is most important. You know that."

Raven sighed grudgingly. "Aye," he admitted. A flicker of something passed over his face, so fast that Marken was sure he had imagined it. For in the next instant, the cold mask of authority had returned. "Train the boy as you will. But don't become too attached to him. Only four in ten survive the Trial of Grasses." With that ominous note, he strode off, his black hair whipping in the snowy-wind.

"Good to see he's in a fine mood for once," remarked Eskel as he watched the other man disappear into the arms of the lengthening shadows. "Hmm… Wonder if he's feeling generous too. I've been asking him to let me move to that empty room down the corridor, since mine is so drafty and all…"

"Don't test your luck," abmonished Geralt gruffly, hoisting his bags onto his shoulders and marching past.

"Maybe if I asked _really_ nicely and baked him some cookies…" mused Eskel thoughtfully, falling into step with his friend as they ascended the icy steps leading to the main hall. "I bet he would like that…"

"Raven doesn't eat biscuits."

"I said 'cookies'; not 'biscuits'. There's a fundamental difference, you know. And beside's that's not the point! It's the sentiment that counts and…" Their voices faded from earshot as they entered through the stout oaken doors.

Marken stared after them and with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was just beginning to get accustomed to travelling with the three strange men and to accept the fact that he was leaving his family behind when they had arrived at this castle and his resolve had shattered. Vesemir and Eskel – even Geralt to some extent – had treated him like a man. But Raven had cast one look at him and had decided that he was vermin, unfit for anything apart from being kicked away from underfoot. He had promised himself that he would be strong, and that he would trust his mother's judgement. But how could she have known that she would be leaving him with ravenous wolves? He tried to fight the tears that threatened to spill, but to no avail. A small sob escaped as the full gravity of his situation came crashing down on him - he was alone.

"Come now, lad," murmured Vesemir as he lifted him from the saddle. "Take no heed of Raven. He is rough and gruff and hardly ever has a kind word for anyone. Don't let him get to you, understand?" Marken nodded glumly, wiping the tears from his eyes. "This is yours, I believe," the man added, handing over the wrapped bundle Madden had given him.

Clutching the embodiment of the last remaining tie to his home tightly to his chest, Marken was reminded of all the deaths in his family. Even though they had all been scared and had tried to fight the inevitable, when the end came, they had looked Death calmly in the face and had passed away with grace. And as Vesemir led him into the warmth of the keep, Marken resolved that he too would be like that. He _had_ to be like that. He resolved that, from now on, when anything painful or difficult came his way, he would face up to it. Never again would he show weakness. From now on, he would be a man.

* * *

_I know that Eskel is not necessarily portrayed like this in the books. He is described as being calm and reasonable, but I thought that would be a bit boring, so I have designated him as the light-hearted provider of comic humour. Hope there are no hard feelings! The other witchers, along with Triss will make an appearance shortly!_


	3. The Training

**The Training**

"Hey, Rat! You better come quick!" A mop of reddish-brown hair appeared in the doorway, followed by a pair of eager amber eyes. "Trust me – you don't want to miss this."

"I can't. I need to get all this armour polished before breakfast. And don't _you_ have chores to do as well?"

"They can wait," replied the first with supreme confidence. "So, are you coming or not?" he added impatiently, literally bouncing on the spot.

"Where?"

Apparently this was answer enough for his friend. In the next instant, Marken was being dragged by the wrist down the cold stone corridors of the keep. As he followed Taren – or Fox, as he was also known, on account of his reddish hair – Marken realised that they were heading to the practice yard. The four years at Kaer Morhen had taught him many skills, probably most important of which was a keen sense of memory and direction. Without these, he would not have been able to carry out even the most elementary of tasks, for he would have gotten hopelessly lost in the meandering hallways of the keep.

Finding one's way around the famous witcher stronghold was not something that could just be done – it was a special ability acquired through years of practice. The ancient fortress had been designed to be a weapon in and of itself – a wide corridor would suddenly become dead-ends and a subsequent death trap for invaders; certain doors opened into nothing but air and a hundred foot drop onto the jagged stones below; and particular paving stones had to be avoided unless one wanted a quick death by concealed wards. And, if all else failed, the maze of subterranean dungeons gave way to secret passages that would lead the defenders to safety; and become the death of those who did not know their way.

Skipping over a loose paving-stone that would trigger the release of a dozen deadly bolts if stepped on, Marken asked, "So, what is this fight that you are dragging me to?"

He had started combat practice two years ago, along with the handful of other trainees who inhabited the castle alongside the witchers and the meagre staff. Before that, his life at Kaer Morhen had consisted of various boring and labour-intensive chores, such as mucking out the stables, peeling potatoes and polishing armour. Such duties were still required of him, in addition to presenting himself at the mandatory combat training sessions, potion brewing classes and lessons on monster-lore. His new life was tough and demanding, but exciting nonetheless. His eyes had been opened to vast realm of knowledge that he did not even know existed until now. He had been taught to read and write, and this allowed him to ravenously devour any book that he managed to get his hands on. And while he also enjoyed watching the older trainees test their wills against one another, he had seen his fair share of such duels during his lessons and did not think that they were worth the risk of punishment for skimping on his chores.

"You'll see," whispered Fox with barely contained self-satisfaction as they reached one of the balconies that overlooked the training yard. Marken could see that all the witchers of Kaer Morhen had gathered to watch the spectacle, probably also drawn out by the first sunshine of spring. Additionally, he spied a couple of other trainees who had left their assigned morning tasks, peeping out from various shadowy corners. And, as he turned his gaze towards the middle of the roughly formed circle of spectators, he could understand why.

Below them, Geralt and Raven – arguably the two greatest witchers of the land – were pitting themselves against each other. And it appeared to be a real fight, too! The naked steel of their blades glimmered in the early morning sun, free of the protective cloth padding that the novices fought with. They were both stripped to the waist, their skins already coated with a thin layer of dust that had settled onto their perspiring bodies. The clash of their swords rent the otherwise still yard and the sound echoed off the stone walls, disturbing the crows that had settled there.

Marken's heart leapt to his throat as he watched Raven rush forward to deliver a killing blow. But, at the last second, Geralt whirled to the side, narrowly avoiding his opponent's blade and made a brutal down-wards swipe onto Raven's exposed back. Or would have, had Raven still been there – while Geralt had been turning, the tattooed witcher had executed a diving roll and was now bringing his foot around to trip his counterpart. But the White Wolf stayed true to his name, and with lupine grace side-stepped Raven's riposte. And on it went; neither giving any ground, and both taking full advantage of any opening. The fight was more than evenly matched and utterly mesmerising to watch. Marken found that he could not tear his eyes away, and shuddered to recall that he had wanted to stay in the armoury instead of watch this heart-stopping dance of blades.

Suddenly, it was over. Marken's heart sank with disappointment as he watched the two men rise from their battle-poses and clap each other good-naturedly on the shoulder.

"Been practicing in secret, have you Wolf?" Raven's gruff voice carried with it a note of almost indiscernible admiration.

"Always," replied Geralt, a rare smile twitching on his lips as he sheathed his sword.

"All right, you lazy louts!" cried the tattooed witcher as he turned to the crowd. "Back to work! Don't think I didn't see you sneak out here!" His golden orbs scanned the courtyard and somehow managed to locate all the hiding places of the novices. Marken cringed as those otherworldly eyes fixed themselves onto him, and he felt his friend react in a similar fashion.

"Time to go…" muttered Fox as he scampered down the shadowy corridors. Marken followed suit, knowing the disciplinary actions that awaited him should be found with his chores incomplete. But he couldn't prevent the wide grin forming on his lips. If someday he would be able to fight like Geralt or Raven, then a few lashes on the back were definitely worth it…

o~0~o

"Bloody hell! Watch it, will you, Baz?" cried Marken as the flat of his opponent's blade impacted on his sore back. He was seriously going to hurt Taren the next time that little fox suggested they skimp on their chores. Some of his schemes were simply not worth the beatings that were dished out to truants. Last week, for example his mischievous little friend had suggested that they sneak into the apple orchard and 'sample' the first of the fruit. Marken had been reminded of his adventures with his brother Arden, all those years ago, and so he had reluctantly tagged along. But no sooner had they stepped out into the courtyard, that they had been caught. Disciplinary measures were strictly enforced at Kaer Morhen and had a two-fold purpose – they taught would-be witchers that actions always have consequences, and built up their resistance to pain. Both were key to a witcher's survival.

"Should've moved faster, Rat," came the nonchalant reply.

"Oh yeah? I'll show you fast!" shouted Marken as he rushed his opponent. The use of the hated epithet fuelled him and made him momentarily forget the dull pain the blow had left. Raven had dished out new names for all the novices during their first training session, and Marken's prior relegation to the realm of vermin had stuck, much to his distaste. The label was a continuous reminder of what he had been, and what he must avoid becoming at all cost – a useless vagrant who relied on the good graces of others to survive. He only allowed Taren, his best and only friend, to call him 'Rat'…and Raven, of course, because he could do nothing about his superior's apparent dislike of him. But he could teach the bull-headed and apt-named Ox that he was not to be trifled with…

During the four years since he began combat practice, he had morphed from the small, ill-fed scrap of a boy that he used to be, into a wiry muscled adolescent. He was still a bit scrawny, but what he lacked in build, he made up for in speed and dexterity. He had quickly learnt that this was highly advantageous against many of the older novices, who relied on brute strength to finish off an opponent, and could not keep up with the nimble little rat dancing just out of reach of their swords. He was fast… but sometimes not fast enough, as Baz had so eloquently pointed out to him.

Marken's sparring partner, despite his lumbering appearance, lithely side-stepped the oncoming charge and was preparing a counter-attack even as he spun. Thinking fast, Marken halted his attack in mid-stride and quickly ducked the vicious downward swipe that came his way. Today, for the first time, they were fighting without cloth-padding on their swords, so he had to be extra careful. Accidents happened, and he knew he would receive no sympathy if he got an appendage loped off because he wasn't paying enough attention. Least of all from Raven – who supervised the sparing sessions – lounging seemingly idly in the shade. But Marken knew that his fearsome eyes registered everything that went on in the training yard, and his foul mouth was never slow to deal out rebukes and criticism.

Looking up, he saw that under the harsh midday sun, Baz's face was already ruddy from his exertions. Even though he was stoutly-built, hefting his preferred longsword was no easy task, and he was tiring. Marken, armed with a lighter shortsword, was faring a bit better, but even his muscles were starting to complaining. Today's lesson was all about endurance and stamina rather than martial skill, and their task was to concentrate on tiring their opponent out rather than deliver potential killing blows. If he could keep his strength up for a few more minutes, dancing around Baz, but staying just out of reach, he could get his work done for him.

Rolling away from another brutal, he called, "Getting a bit slow are we, Baz? Too tired to catch a rat, are you?"

"Shut yer gob!" puffed Ox as he hefted his weapon again, his northern brogue thickening in anger. Marken parried a blow that left his arms shacking with the effort. If he wanted to win this, he had to avoid direct contact, he realised, as he jumped clear of yet another onslaught. Then, when Baz was tired enough, he would press the advantage. And so, for the next couple of minutes he ducked, rolled, jumped and danced around his partner. Baz took all the openings he was given, in the hope of knocking Marken off his feet, and maybe even knocking him out. The Ox was known to fight dirty on occasion, and a blow from one of those beefy fists was something that Marken wanted to avoid at all costs.

The longsword hit the ground next to Marken's feet and as its wielder took a second to catch his breath, the Rat took his chance. Kicking the blade aside, he executed a series of quick ripostes that Baz was too slow to deflect, leaving little nicks on his arms and shoulders. The Ox bellowed in pain and lifted his sword above his head. Knowing that he did not have the strength to parry the blow, Marken dived to the side. As he came to his feet, Baz's cross-guard smashed into his face. Bright stars came reeling across his vision, but they were quickly obscured by a dark red mist. When he lifted his hand to the epicentre of the pain, his fingers came away wet and sticky. Blinking the blood out of his eyes, he looked up just in time to see Baz rushing him, sword raised, rage in his eyes. Marken stepped aside at the last minute, his thought processes hampered by the thudding ache that was threatening to split his head open. But as his opponent's form rushed past, he managed to summon the last vestiges of his will-power and deliver a vicious kick to Baz's lower back, sending him toppling into the dust.

A small wave of cheering erupted behind him. Reeling around, he saw that the other trainees had already finished their sparring and had gathered around to watch the conclusion of the battle. Swirling his head to the prone form of Baz, a wide smile erupted over his lips and he took a few staggering steps towards Taren, who stood at the front of the line. But before he could reach his friend, a wave of nausea crashed over him and his knees buckled. Hitting the ground face first, his world went black.

o~0~o

The first thing he realised, when he came to, was that his head was being crushed by an enormous vice. Groaning, he lifted his hands up to try and free himself, but instead of oily black metal, his fingers found soft cloth.

"I would not do that, if I were you, lad," came a gentle but authorative voice. Opening his eyes with some difficulty, Marken found himself looking into Vesemir's golden orbs. "Those bandages are keeping your head together."

"W-what…?" Marken croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper and he almost did not recognise his own voice.

"Baz's blow cracked your skull. You're lucky you didn't suffer anything worse than a splitting headache."

"H-how long was I out for?" he asked, glancing around the infirmary that was empty apart from him and Vesemir.

"About an hour. But Rubin has kept you asleep for the past three days."

"Three days!"

"Be glad, lad. You could be dead or in a coma right now." Vesemir's matter-of-fact words made him sink back into his pillow in shock. "I'll leave you to rest now. But that little red-head has been buggering Rubin to let him see you since they brought you in here. In fact he's sulking out in the corridor right now." Vesemir's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Should I let him in?"

Marken nodded. Seemingly in the next second, Taren was by his bedside, a virtual torrent of words erupting from his mouth. "Thank the gods, Rat! We thought you had died! There was an impossible amount of blood and when you didn't come to, we thought…" Marken felt his friend's grip on his hand tighten. "But look's like you're on the mend now, right? Though I do have to say you look terrible – like death warmed over."

Marken couldn't help emitting a small chuckle. But he immediately regretted it when a new wave of pain washed over him.

"All right, all right. That's enough fraternising," came the sound of a new voice. A head of curly black hair appeared, from which a pair of spectacled blue eyes could be discerned. "The patient needs rest, rest I say! Now out! Out with you!"

"Hang in there, Rat!" winked Taren as he was pushed out of the infirmary by Rubin, Kaer Morhen's physician.

"All right, young sir, drink this, drink this" ordered Rubin, reappearing with a vial of green liquid. "I don't care how horrible it tastes; you will drink it all," he declared imperiously as Marken chocked on the vile tasting medicine. Snatching the vial away, he commanded, "Now off to sleep with you. I don't want to hear nothing from you for the next six hours apart contented snoring."

Even as the slightly eccentric doctor began walking away, Marken felt his eyelids dropping. In the next instant, he was floating through a bizarre landscape full of heightened colours, magical beings and ethereal music where pain no longer existed.


End file.
